first call of spring did i expect perfection that first evening of spring when the red chested cuckoo called me outside to see the evening star in a salmon sky – clear and still horizon to hilled horizon where all but he held its breath while his song fell from the trees. second call…
if i had known this morning, if i had left my door open, the cuckoo would not be dead. empty body warm soft in hand, ghost print against the glass. Sympathize
tree there is no waiting – no now no then only here, new sun flickering lichen bark on old trees. piet-my-vrou between call and answer is silence, cuckoo calls again never loosing faith, knowing it is the silence that shapes its call.